


broken and bent

by glimmerglanger



Category: The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Attempted Rape/Non-Con, Canon Divergence - Post-Avengers (2012), Chitauri Victory AU, Dark, F/F, F/M, M/M, Psychological Torture, Torture
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-04-25
Updated: 2018-04-25
Packaged: 2019-04-27 22:49:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,808
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14435820
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/glimmerglanger/pseuds/glimmerglanger
Summary: New York feels like it was years ago.  Freedom feels like nothing but a dim memory, hard to recall when faced with the crackling energy that forms his cell.  The hope that he’d cautiously allowed to grow under Tony’s warm welcome and acceptance was dashed away, replaced by near constant pain, taunts, and cruelty that is impressive in its scope.  Bruce had thought humanity had taught him all that there was to know of agony, but he’d been wrong.  The Chitauri school him in a myriad new ways to hurt.





	broken and bent

**Author's Note:**

> Hey, so, apparently Infinity War coming up inspired me to go back to this AU from the end of the first Avengers, because why not write an AU about a six year old movie that the plot has long since moved past? I think I posted part of this back in the day, but I can't find it anymore, so. Heed the warnings, please, I'm not messing about with them. Things get better, but they start out pretty rough for everyone involved. More characters to show up later. Tags will be adjusted as necessary. Note that there's no Thorki in this part and there won't be for a bit, but it seemed unfair to not warn for that going in.

Bruce cannot recall how long he’s been in this cage.

 

New York feels like it was years ago.  Freedom feels like nothing but a dim memory, hard to recall when faced with the crackling energy that forms his cell.  The hope that he’d cautiously allowed to grow under Tony’s warm welcome and acceptance was dashed away, replaced by near constant pain, taunts, and cruelty that is impressive in its scope.  Bruce had thought humanity had taught him all that there was to know of agony, but he’d been wrong.  The Chitauri school him in a myriad new ways to hurt.

 

He doesn’t know what happened to the others.  He hasn’t seen them since New York.  His captors tell him that they are all dead, that Steve was torn apart limb from limb, that they roasted Tony alive in his suit, that Thor fled back to Asgard, abandoning them to their fates, that Clint and Natasha were forced to kill one another with their bare hands.  At least, those are the stories that Bruce remembers now.  He is almost certain they have changed over the days or weeks or months, rearranged to whatever configuration his tormentors think will have the greatest effect on him.

 

It didn’t take him long to understand what they wanted.  Their eyes were too sharp on him, their victory too clear when his eyes would flash to green, when he could feel the beast beneath his skin stirring to life.  The Chitauri want the Hulk, and though Bruce cannot comprehend exactly what they think they would do with The Other Guy, he doesn’t trust them enough to let him out.  After all, Loki beat them—beat him--once.  It stands to reason that the crazed god could do it again.

 

Loki certainly seems mad enough to try it.  He paces ever restlessly around Bruce’s cage, without seeming to need rest, or food, or even to take a drink to ease his throat from all the ranting he does.  Bruce feels weary just watching him, sometimes, with his nuclear-blue eyes sunk deep into his pallid skin, and his thin lips twisted back from his sharp teeth.

 

At first, Bruce had to fight to ignore him.  Every poisonous word that Loki uttered had cut and tore at him.  Loki whispered that Bruce had killed Natasha, and didn’t remember.  That he had eaten Tony as the Hulk, driven mad with hunger, and Loki had been so convincing that Bruce retched and retched and retched until he could not tell where his tears and snot ended and his vomit began.  Loki laughed the entire time, and then he threw a piece of Tony's suit through the force field, the golden metal twisted and stained red with blood.

 

But that was long ago.  Bruce doesn’t hear most of what Loki says, anymore.  He’s been numbed to the horrors.  They pass in one ear and out the other, not really registering.  The cadence of Loki’s voice is actually soothing, if one can’t hear what he’s saying with it.  Bruce lets it wash over him, day in, day out, huddled in the middle of his cell, wishing that he could die, that they would grant him that, at long last.

 

A stab of pain stirs him from the hunched knot he had bound his body into.  The collar they bound around his neck delivers the jolts of agony whenever they wish it. The growl that escapes his chest is less than human; momentarily the inside of his body feels too large to be contained by his skin, but Bruce has grown adept at restraining The Other Guy here.  They have reached a sort of agreement, he and the monster under his skin, a trust that the worst thing they could do was give their captors what they wanted.  There’s another blinding wash of agony down through his bones and Bruce groans, rolling himself onto his back, craning his head to give Loki the attention he craves when he gets like this.

 

It isn’t Loki, pacing in front of his cage and hurling bile.  It’s a Chitauri, smaller than the others, and more elaborately dressed.  It has some kind of elegant headdress, thin curls of metal framing its head and piercing its cheeks, stretching down to disappear into its armor.  Bruce blinks at it, confused, because the Chitauri rarely deign to visit him.  He’s always gotten the feeling that he is Loki’s pet project.

 

And then the Chitauri kicks the figure that had been slumped at its feet, and Bruce realizes that perhaps there has been a regime change.

 

Loki, sprawled across the floor, looks…he looks nothing like the god that has heaped torment after torment onto Bruce.  His hair is long and tangled into mats, it hides most of his face, but Bruce catches a glimpse and it is nothing but old, crusted blood and black bruises and fresh rivulets of crimson that drip from Loki’s nose and mouth.  He is not finely dressed, the rich green fabrics and delicately worked leathers that he was so fond of are gone.  His battered body is nearly naked.  What scraps of clothing that remain to him are hanging around his wrists and ankles.  They are stained black.  Bruce can’t tell how badly he’s hurt.  There is too much blood and filth for that, but he is holding himself up off of the floor with one battered arm, his mouth gaping open as he gasps for breath around the pain and a prickle runs down the back of Bruce’s neck.  Bruce pushes himself up to a crouch and rasps, unsure how long it has been since the last time he spoke, “What’s going on?”

 

“Quiet, beast.”  The Chitauri purrs the words absently, not even looking at Bruce.  It kicks Loki, a sudden, sharp blow that takes Loki’s arm out from under him and drives him to his stomach.  It paces around Loki in a tight little circle, it laughs when Loki’s arm shoots out, snake fast, to grab at its ankle and comes up short.  It rumbles, “I am pleased that you still have some fight, Jotunn.  I told them you had one last good show in you.”

 

The word that Loki snarls isn’t one Bruce understands.  He isn’t sure if its alien, or simply a product of Loki’s ruined mouth.  The Chitauri laughs, in any case, a harsh, mocking sound that Bruce recognizes.  He has heard it every day, for as long as he’s been in this cage.  It has always before come out of Loki’s mouth.  Bruce leverages himself to his feet, wincing from the stiffness in his joints, the myriad aches from a myriad nights sleeping on the cold, hard ground.  He demands, with as much gravitas as he can manage, “Hey, what are you doing to him?”  He is ignored.

 

The Chitauri kicks Loki again, a sharp blow with its booted foot and Loki grabs for its knee, a flash of painfully thin limbs and movement that is too fast to be human.  He’s still too slow.  The Chitauri bends and lands a blow against Loki’s temple, so hard that it drives him down to the floor with a meaty thump, and Loki lays there, making tiny ‘ah, ah’ sounds, twitching all over.

 

The Chitauri growls, “You have defied us for the last time, ungrateful one.  Did we not pluck you from the interstellar wastes?  Did we not ask for a reasonable boon in return?  Did we—”

 

Loki spits, shoving up onto his elbows and jutting his chin forward, and his blood splatters across the Chitauri’s chin and neck, a constellation of tiny crimson stars.  He is laughing, when the Chitauri rains blows down on him, a thin, wheezy laugh, watery and rattling in his lungs.  Bruce finds himself pacing, agitated, quick steps that take him closer and closer to the edge of his cage, where power still crackles hot enough to raise the hair on his arms.  He opens his mouth, but the only sound in his throat is a bestial roar, and that he swallows back.

 

“You like to run, hm?”  The Chitauri is standing, now, wiping its bloody hands off on its armor, “It has been decided that you will run once more.  For us, this time.  No more lies.  No more of your pathetic attempts to escape your duty.”

 

Bruce manages, “What?” but no one is listening to him.

 

“So, run, broken god.  Or crawl,” the Chitauri doesn’t kick Loki this time, just shoves him with the toe of its boot, “pull yourself across the floor like the worm that you are, and if you reach the cage, you will be able to grant yourself death.”  And then the Chitauri turns on its heel and exits the room with a sweep of its long, emerald cape.

 

“Loki,” Bruce tries to take deep breaths.  His hands have curled into fists.  His voice is too deep, “Loki, what’s going on here, if this is a trick, it isn’t going to work.  I’m not going to be fooled by—”

 

Loki makes a sound.  It isn’t a scream, not quite, but Bruce thinks that’s only because Loki can’t get the breath to scream.  He’s pushed himself up onto one elbow and throws himself forward, gaining maybe two inches of forward progress in the move.  It’s only then that Bruce fully takes in the crooked, tortured twists of Loki’s legs, the white protrusions of bones through skin.  Loki’s eyes are feverishly bright on Bruce’s cage, and there’s a hunger in them that Bruce knows, a desire to die, to just let the pain end.  Bruce wheezes, “Shit.  Shit.”  And then the door opens again.

 

It’s not the Chitauri from before.  It’s a mess of them, all in their armor, and they file in and in and in.  Loki makes a keening sound, half a laugh, half a scream, he curls his fingertips, stripped of nails, against the floor and pulls himself forward with some desperate, impossible display of strength.  His broken legs are jerking on the floor and he pushes and shoves, willing himself forward and the first of the Chitauri are on him.

 

“Stop!”  Bruce shouts, but he goes unheard under the sound that Loki makes, animal and wrenching and terrible.  The Chitauri plants a hand between Loki’s shoulders and pushes him flat to the ground, Loki bucking and twisting under it as best he can.  “Stop!  Let him up!”  The look on Loki’s face is horrifying, hopeless and broken.  The Chitauri cants Loki’s hips up, shoving his broken legs to the side with a chuckle and Bruce’s heart is beating too fast, he can feel the flood of chemicals into his blood, the sudden tightness of his shirt across his chest and shoulders, the top of his cage is getting much closer and then The Other Guy takes over.


End file.
